


Same Old Song

by stuckybarnes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Drunk Stiles, Dysphoria, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eternal Sterek, Eventual Smut, Everyone Is Alive, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pack Bonding, Pack Cuddles, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Protective Derek, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stiles Stilinski Has ADHD, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Hale Pack - Freeform, Trans Male Character, Trans Stiles Stilinski, Wolf Derek, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 21:30:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6770935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckybarnes/pseuds/stuckybarnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's an accident, how Derek finds out about Stiles.</p><p>But what happens after, over the course of weeks, months, is one of the most spectacular things that has yet to happen to their mangy pack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello, friends! 
> 
> if you remember, i wrote a story about vigilante Stiles and FBI Derek a while back, deleted it, and wrote it with my own characters. SO, this isn't my first fic! I'm very excited to bring y'all this. I hope you like it.

It’s an accident, how Derek finds out about Stiles.

Derek is kneeled by the door, lacing up his scuffed boots to gather firewood in the forest.  It’s now or never, really, because a storm is rolling into Beacon Hills tomorrow, and Derek needs to be prepared - storms wash out all scent of danger or other packs, and Derek is  _ not _ about to go on a suicide mission.

The sky is bruised a dark gray, storm clouds blotting out the blue.  The smell of rain has been heavy in the air all day, and the wind is already howling against the window panes.

There has recently been an influx of other packs traveling through the outskirts of the woods -  _ his _ woods - and while Derek isn’t particularly angry about packs simply passing  _ through, _ some packs have been overstaying their welcome.

Because of this, the amount of hunters had also sparked near the woods, which isn’t good for  _ Derek’s _ pack, who aren’t causing any trouble.  

So, Derek needs to get wood for the fire during the storm, so he doesn’t have to go out when all the scents have washed away, leaving him blind-sided.

He sighs, shrugging a large, barren duffel bag over his shoulder, and unlocking the door.

His hands freeze on the lock, back going stiff.  

“Your timing is disgusting.” Derek groans, right before he swings the door open, a surprised Stiles on the porch, hand raised to knock.

In truth, he and Stiles have gotten closer; at least a fraction.  Stiles isn’t immediately wary of Derek anymore - which is welcomed, because while Derek appreciates that he looks intimidating enough to be feared, it almost made him feel…  _ bad _ that Stiles was terrified of him at first. 

They've gotten to the point where Stiles has even confided in him in the past. At least twice, Stiles has showed up at Derek’s soaking wet during a storm, shaking like a leaf at every roll of thunder, asking to stay with him when Scott was busy. 

Derek is no longer as quickly irritated by Stiles’ constant shifting and fidgeting. Instead, he admits that Stiles’ mannerisms  _ interest _ him, if anything.

And, they don’t butt heads nearly as much.

However, all this can be reversed depending on the day.   

Now, Stiles stands on the front steps in dark jeans and a Spider-Man graphic t-shirt, his red hoodie zipped half way. His lean frame is rocking on the balls of his feet, earbuds hanging out of his pocket in a tangled heap.

“Sorry. I was bored.” Stiles shrugs, and Derek narrows his eyes as he stands there, swaying his hands like a child.

“Oh!” Stiles adds, “And Scott wanted to know if the pack is staying here during the storm for a power-in-numbers cuddle session sort of thing.”  

“Were those his exact words?” Derek asks, raising an amused brow and pulling the door open completely, Stiles ducking under his hand and entering the loft.

“I paraphrased.” Stiles grins, finally taking notice of the empty bag over Derek’s shoulder.  “Where are you going?” He questions, jumping up onto the countertop, swinging his feet.

“To answer Scott’s question, we might as well.  To answer yours, I’m going to gather firewood so we’re not screwed during the storm.”

Stiles’ mouth parts, and Derek cuts him off before he can ask. “Yes, you can come if you help me find wood.”

“Cool.” Stiles beams, and Derek leaves him for a moment to grab another bag, tossing it to Stiles.  “Let's go,” Derek huffs, “I don't want it to get dark while we’re still in the forest.”

“Alright, Sourwolf, don’t get your undies in a twist.” Stiles berates, and Derek shoves him back through the door, outside now.  

Up until now, the experience in the woods had been going without incident.  Stiles cracked jokes about werewolves and dogs, giggling at his own puns, and Derek growled at him occasionally, sharpened canines and blood red eyes making appearances, just for effect; Derek’s teeth no longer terrified Stiles, though they do make him shut up for a while.  

“I know you have bunny teeth under those fangs, Derek. Shut up. You can wear that badass leather jacket all you want.” Stiles had said to him, though he smelled nervous still, which made Derek chuckle.

Now, they each have over ten sizeable pieces of firewood, some small twigs and tinder, and some near the girth of fallen branches.  “Let’s sing a song, Der.” Stiles says excitedly, hefting his bag further up his shoulder.  “I know you’re hiding some serious music skills under that broody bravado.”

“I don't sing.” Derek huffs, furrowing his brow at Stiles.

“Yeah, and I don't play video games,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

“I have a better idea,” Derek starts, grinning, “Let’s play the quiet game.”

Stiles splutters, staring at him indignantly. “Wh - you’re no fun.” He pouts, breaking a twig off a bigger piece of wood in his bag and flinging it at Derek’s chest, who stares as it falls to the floor.

“You’ve mortally wounded me, Stiles.  I’ll never be snarky again.” Derek says, snarkily.

“Whatever, Sourwolf,” Stiles says petulantly, trudging forward, crisp autumn leaves crunching underfoot.   

Instead of warning the boy, because he knew Stiles wouldn’t listen, Derek shoves his arm out hastily, his hand swinging into Stiles’ chest, gripping the shirt fabric tightly.  

Stiles yelps, shoving Derek’s hand away with an unusual ferocity, ducking away.  “Don’t touch -  _ not the chest.” _  He barks.  “What was that for?” Stiles hisses, rolling his shoulders and zipping his hoodie the rest of the way up.  

Derek pulled his hand away with a confused frown, the bitter scent of panic deep in the air.  “I grabbed you before you tripped over that tree root.” Derek says, gesturing to the forest ground below them, at a rotten tree root, spindly and dark.  “I wasn’t going to hurt you any.” He says tentatively, in case that was what Stiles had reacted so strongly to, though the thought bothers him.

“Oh.” Stiles mutters. “No - uh, no.  ‘M just bruised there from lacrosse, that’s all.” Stiles amends, voice cracking.

_ Lie, _ Derek knows, but nods in resignation anyway.

“Okay.”

They walk for several more minutes in silence, collecting more tinder to keep the fire going, walking closer towards the depths of the woods, where the low branches are and uncleared paths are.  The walk in a comfortable silence, Stiles humming a happy song under his breath.  

The wind is getting stronger with every minute spend outside, and stormy gray clouds have gathered overhead, casting a sooty shadow over the world.

Derek’s about to suggest that they head back, when he freezes in his spot.

Stiles bumps roughly into Derek’s back in surprise, stumbling before Derek grabs his shirt  distractedly to stabilize him.

“Derek, what -”

“Be quiet.” Derek growls, pulling Stiles closer.  He stays very still, his senses in overdrive.  

He pushes pas Stiles' worried breaths, past his jack-rabbit heartbeat. Far away, Derek hears the whizzing of arrows, or perhaps bullets.  The strong smell of wolfsbane assaults his nose.  He hears the rustle of footsteps, human footsteps, smelling of gunpowder.  

“We have to go. Right now.” Derek says sternly.  

The strong smell of panic flows off Stiles in waves. “What? Derek, tell me what's happening.” He says, and his voice doesn't waver.

Derek hefts his bag of firewood higher on his shoulder before shoving Stiles in front of him.  “Hunters are near. They have weapons and they're firing. Either that, or there are traps that they set.”

An arrow flies past them at alarming speed, and a scared noise escapes Stiles.  This means that there are preplaced traps in the woods.

“Run.”

And they run.  

Derek is impressed; they're making good time, and Stiles is actually keeping Derek's fast-paced sprint.   They're running in jagged lines, so that targets can't focus on them.

“What the fuck.” Stiles gasps, panting.

“You can curse about it when we’re not at risk of dying.” Derek grits out, and they quicken their pace in tandem, another arrow launching from a trap flying past them.

“What the  _ fuck! _ ” He screams, covering his head with his arms, only aggravating him more.  

Derek takes a moment of silence to gauge how far away the hunters are.  “Just get to the center of the woods - that's  _ my _ territory. That can't cross it.” Derek assures, a hand on Stiles’ bicep to keep him paced.

“Center? What  _ center? _ It's just  _ trees! _ Everything is just trees,  _ Derek!”   _ He whines, and Derek clenches his jaw, sighing.

“I know my woods.  We’re one hundred yards away, Stiles, we’re close.” He says, but he's doubting himself - he can hear the not-so-distant thud of feet chasing after them.  

“Eighty yards.” He says, and they run faster.

Another arrow whizzes past them, and a gunshot echoes around them.

Stiles yelps, jolting slightly.

“Fifty yards.” He says.   _ Come on, come on, come  _ **_on_ ** _. _

They fly over a fallen tree trunk, Derek’s hand gifted in the back of Stiles’ shirt in case he tripped.

“I'm gonna die. This happens way too often.” Stiles mewls.

“You're not going to die.  Twenty yards.” Derek says tersely.

They run faster, faster, faster.

“We’re at the center,” Derek breathes, and Stiles groans, his hands braced on his knees, body doubled over as they stop.  Derek frowns down at him for a moment.  Contrary to belief, Stiles is in shape. He has three lacrosse practices every week, and he runs for his life most days.  Stiles doesn't get  _ this _ out of breath. It's almost as if he can't breathe for some other reason.

“Everything’s fine now, Stiles, so -”

A shot goes off. Derek can hear the ripple of wind the bullet makes in its wake.

Stiles cries out in pain.

Derek only has a brief moment to register that Stiles has been shot, before he's falling to the forest ground.

Derek’s eyes widen, catching him before his head hits the floor.  The smell of blood is sharp and metallic in the air, permeating the fresh forest leaves.

He's unconscious instantly.

_ Not good.  _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOO! things are happening. this is kinda sad, but also good

Derek’s eyes widen and he reacts instantly, scooping Stiles up in his arms with little effort.  Stiles sucks in labored air in response, and Derek can  _ hear _ his chest expanding and constricting, far too tightly. 

_ He’s hardly breathing. _

Derek holds Stiles close to his chest as he runs the few yards left towards the loft, doing his best not to jostle him.  His senses are trained on the soft thud of Stiles’ heart, and everything else is background noise.  He hears the rasp in Stiles’ breathes, the rattle in his lungs, the erratic pulse at his neck.  He smells pungent, coppery blood, but it smells  _ light. _  Light is good. Light blood means that it isn't flowing from any organs.

Derek throws open the loft’s door with more ferocity than he knew he had for Stiles, carefully laying him onto the floor before turning on all the lights, flickering to life.  He kneels down beside the boy to assess his wounds.  Crouched over him, Derek sees a wound on Stiles’s side, but it looks like the bullet only grazed him.  

Surely this can't be the reason for the loud, shallow breaths that can't seem to regulate.

“Okay,” Derek says aloud, because he isn't sure that Stiles is entirely unconscious, “I’m going to have to look.” Derek prays to an empty sky that the bullet wasn't laced with poison, but it's the only reason he can think of for why Stiles can’t breathe.

With uncharacteristic gentleness, Derek peels off Stiles’ hoodie and shirt.

And his brows furrow, hands hovering over Stiles.  _ What is this?   _

He's both frustrated and confused, because he needs to help Stiles, but he has no _idea_ _what_ -

He understands, a sudden wave of realization.

“Oh. Oh, Stiles, god.” Derek mumbles.

Stiles’ shirt now abandoned, Derek had revealed the reason for his shallow breathing. Stiles’ chest is wrapped with ace bandages, tightly binding down breasts.

After several seconds of internal dialogue, Derek knows that he has to continue. He pulls himself out of his shock and examines the wound on Stiles’ side, checking for more in the meantime.  Finding none, Derek dresses Stiles’ bullet graze with disinfectant and gauze.

Stiles’ breathing is still labored and coming out in wheezes.  Derek can see that the bindings are done so tightly that they cut into his skin in angry pink lines, his chest hardly having room to expand.

Derek’s hands shook as he raked them through his hair.  If he were Stiles, he would never trust someone who was about to do this again. He would feel betrayed, furious, terrified.

But he would be breathing.

“I - I’m so sorry, Stiles.” Derek breathes. He slides out the knife that was tucked inside his boot, and cuts Stiles’ bandages open.

Derek doesn’t look at his chest.

And then, suddenly, he hears Stiles, still unconscious, take a deep breath.

Derek lets out a sigh of relief at this before pressing his fingers to Stiles’ abdomen and taking his pain away.  Derek hisses under his breath as his veins darken to ink, his stomach and chest burning with Stiles’’ pain. When the uncomfortable expression on Stiles’ face finally dissipates, he stops absorbing the younger boy’s pain. At least for now.

“Come on, pup.” Derek hums, lifting Stiles into his arms, “Let’s get you to bed.”

In his room, Derek grabs a pair of lounge pants and thermal shirt with one hand, holding Stiles against his chest with the other before laying him on the bed.

Carefully, Derek pulls the shirt over Stiles, followed by tugging his jeans off, the waistband wet with blood, before slipping on sweatpants. He pulls the blankets up over Stiles, laying him on his back, and leaves. Stiles’ breaths are slow and steady, his chest rising freely aside from the occasional hitch of pain.

His hand slides down the doorframe, turning to Stiles once more with a passing glance.

“Sorry.”

And the boy sleeps.

Stiles wakes up with a blinding headache.  He is far too hot, his cheeks prickling with warmth and hair plastered to his forehead.  He’s in a large, unfamiliar bed, and the room smells of cedarwood and fresh laundry.  

He is in an unfamiliar shirt, at least two sizes too large, and sweatpants that had been rolled several times at the ankles.  His fingers ghost across the bed, and slowly realizes that this is  _ Derek’s _ bed - he recognizes the room now, from whenever pack sleeps over.  

But why is he here? Why does his body hurt so much? Why was he asleep in Derek’s bed? Why is he wearing Derek’s shirt?  Stiles’ mind is a cacophony of panicked questions as he slowly wakes up. He takes a deep breath to calm himself but only fills with dread, anxiety clawing at his throat, breaking through his cavernous ribs.

He sits up quickly, his entire torso searing in pain as he squeezes his eyes shut, clutching his chest.

His eyes snap open and his breath leaves him.

Someone had changed his shirt, taken off his  _ binder.  _ He had gotten hurt, and someone had fixed his wound, and taken off his shirt and binder to do so.

_ Taken off his binder. _

_ Derek had taken off his binder. _

Someone knows, he thinks to himself,  _ Derek _ knows.  What does he think? How can he ever treat him the same now that he knows?

Stiles can't help the tears that fill his eyes, his heart pounding against his ribs. He pulls his knees to his chest and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to control his rapid breaths, or he’ll throw himself into a panic attack.  He crosses his arms over his chest desperately, attempting to flatten slight breasts, a frustrated cry escaping him.

This is exactly how Derek finds him when he comes into the bedroom.

“I heard your heart rate start speeding up, and I need you to know -”

_ “You!” _ Stiles yells venomously, eyes glossy with unshed tears. “You - you did -” Stiles chokes, anxiety swallowing up his words.

Derek leans against the doorframe, though concern laces his expression.  “Stiles,” He starts, voice quiet but hard, “Listen, I didn’t -”

“No, you listen!” Stiles shouts, flinging the covers off of him and standing in a fit of rage.  He stumbles dizzily, and Derek is two feet away from him in a  matter of seconds, but Stiles swats him away angrily, crossing his arms over himself. “You had no right to - to - I didn’t  _ ask _ for you to -” Stiles can’t bring himself to continue,  _ to say it, _ his voice breaking.

Derek’s heart clenches oddly at Stiles distress, but he continues. “Did you want me to let you bleed out on the floor? You were unconscious. You had a bullet wound on your side, and it didn't at all explain why you couldn't _breathe._ You were _suffocating,_ Stiles. I didn't know…” Derek says sternly, voice growing quieter as he went on.

His hard eyes are trained on Stiles’ panicked ones. And then,

“So, I guess you’re going to tell everyone now, right?” Stiles says thickly, tears welling in his eyes that he quickly swipes away.  

The scent of  _ pain, and fear, and dread _ in the room is so thick Derek feels as though he can barely walk.  Derek’s chest burns  with concern for Stiles. He’s almost insulted that Stiles would say such a thing, but he quickly stamps out the feeling; Stiles is genuinely panicked, not thinking straight.

“No. I - why would I ever do that?”

“Oh, come on,” Stiles says bitterly, ducking his head. “I’m sure the pack knows something’s up already.  I mean, everyone else is so immodest and comfortable with themselves.  They would love to know how much of a  _ freak _ I am.” Stiles says the last part so quietly that Derek wouldn’t be able to hear him if he was normal. His voice sounds broken, and Derek’s breath leaves him.

Derek rakes his hands through his hair in frustration.

_ “Dammit, Stiles!” _ He growls, and Stiles’ eyes widen before he gets a defensive edge to his stance.  Panic is still evident in his eyes.

“I - god, Stiles, a  _ freak? _ Is that - is that what you think you are?” Derek asks, scrubbing a hand over his face.  “You’re far from it.” Derek huffs, more to himself that to Stiles.  Stiles’ cheeks flush.

“Why are you acting like this?” Stiles asks desperately, voice ragged.  “Why are you acting like everything's  _ okay?” _ He asks, and the fact that Stiles has no idea, the fact that he’s this… this scared, is horrible.

Derek sighs, looking at Stiles with hard green eyes, his face soft.  “Stiles, I - we understand a lot better than you think.” Derek says, and Stiles still looks guarded.

“At the very least, I can empathize with feeling like your body is out of your control. I understand the feeling of being trapped somewhere that is supposed to feel like home. I understand better than you think.” Derek says pointedly, and his eyes glow an electric blue.

Stiles’ mouth parts with understanding, looking at Derek anew. Finally, _ finally,  _ his body relaxes a bit, the worry and tension leaving his shoulders slightly.

“Young wolves, even adults, sometimes can never fully control their powers. You’re rendered completely helpless when your body takes control during the full moon. You become mentally, and even physically chained, when your heart rate exceeds a normal pace, or you get too angry, too excited, just so you won’t hurt yourself or others.” Derek says lowly, watching Stiles become increasingly less guarded.

“I know it isn’t the same,” Derek starts. “And I can’t imagine feeling so… so constantly stuck. But there’s nothing to judge, Stiles. And I’d never tell anyone.”

Stiles says nothing, but he wipes tears from his cheeks before crossing his arms again, ducking his head.

“You’re still Stiles. You’re still a boy. You - god, of course you are.” Derek breathes, and a choked sob escapes Stiles.  Instead of fear, Derek smells relief.

“If a man was measured by the parts of his body, I would be in a zoo cage, Stiles.” Derek says, and Stiles barks out a laughs, sniffing.  “Okay, okay.” Stiles resolves.

Derek smiles tightly, patting the doorframe. “How’s the pain?” He asks, and Stiles shrugs.  

“Suspiciously mild. So, thanks for working your wolfy magic.” Stiles mutters, and Derek huffs out a laugh, nodding.

“You’ve been sleeping for four hours.  I ordered food for everyone, whenever they get here.” Derek gestures to the nightstand. “Your clothes were bloody, but I left you a change of clothes by the bed.”

“Thanks.” Stiles says, voice hoarse.

“Come out when you’re ready, pup.” Derek says, closing the door behind him.

Maybe it’s the absurdity of the situation, or because of how surprisingly open Derek had just been, but Stiles cries happy tears in relief, his heart thrumming against his ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked that, folks. 
> 
> DON'T FORGET TO LEAVE COMMENTS AND KUDOS.
> 
> Follow me on ig: jerk.punk


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda short, kinda sad. but necessary!!

**To: Scott McCall**

_ We were out in the forest getting firewood. Stiles got a flesh wound.  He’s fine.  - DH _

 

**From: Scott McCall**

_ Where did he get hit? -SM _

 

Derek sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face.  Does Scott know? Surely he knows. They’ve been best friends since they were toddlers - it’s impossible for him  _ not _ to know.

 

**To: Scott McCall**

_ I patched him up and he’s in bed now. -DH _

 

**From: Scott McCall**

_ DEREK. WHERE. -SM _

 

Well.

He knows. Definitely.

 

**To: Scott McCall**

_ His stomach. -DH _

 

**From: Scott McCall**

_ And you had to take his shirt off? -SM _

 

Really, Derek admires the extent his best friend is going to protect his best friend. The torment Stiles must have gone through when he was younger, both emotionally and by his peers, must have been  _ horrendous. _  Derek knows, still, the emotional struggle still remains. 

 

**To: Scott McCall**

_ Yes. He’s fine. Everything is fine. It’s all ok. He’s fine. Don’t worry.  -DH _

 

**From: Scott McCall**

_ I’m worrying. I’ll be there soon. Thanks. -SM _

 

**To: Scott McCall**

_ Of course. -DH _

 

**From: Scott McCall**

_ Thanks. -SM _

 

**To: Scott McCall**

_ You said that already. -DH _

 

**From: Scott McCall**

_ I know. -SM _

 

A quiet curse escapes Derek’s lips, partly because he can empathize with feeling like an unwelcomed stranger in his own body, and partly because Stiles does not deserve to live with that.  Scott’s panic is enough to ensure that Stiles’ growth and transition were difficult, his mind taunting him, making him think horrible things that Derek knows all too well.

He puts it out of his mind, and turns to stand before his array of sprawling books, illuminated by beams of soft light.  He skips his fingers over the spine of each book, rough leather, smooth canvas, and fraying cloth bindings.  He passes anthologies, fantasy and fiction, spiritual medicine books, an original copy of one of the earliest mythical lore books created, Hale family journals, volumes on mental health, until he finds his solace.

And he reads. For hours, minutes, seconds, Derek doesn’t time himself.

“D’rek?” Stiles asks tentatively after some time, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stands in the doorway of the living room.

Really, Stiles has never found anything odd about the mansion.  

Except at first.

Before he had ever been in the Hale mansion, he’d have assumed that the inside was just as decrepit as the shoddy outside appearance. It’s exterior is dark and crisp, burnt wood implying vacancy and despair.  

Inside, Stiles could not have been more wrong.  Derek surely spent a fortune renovating it to its former glory; the Hale legacy fortune was surely considerable.  Though some things, Stiles knew, remained the same. Creaking and weathered hardwood floor rests below a sprawling black rug in the living room. Dark trimmings and cream paint reside on the walls, sparsely placed frames covering the larger cracks. Bookshelves line the majority of the living room, old, downtrodden things with yellowing pages and love in their creased spines.  The windows are sprawling and old, tinged with a nearly unnoticeable layer of residual charcoal that filters in soft lights illuminating the room in a warm glow, casting focus on wayward dust in the air.  A quaint brick fireplace is embedded in the wall across from a worn leather couch and loveseat. Above the fireplace hangs flat screen television that Stiles knows is only there because the pack insisted he buy one.

A beautiful kitchen rests to the left, fully restored with dark granite countertops and deep wooden cupboards, the entire space vast and open. The kitchen walls are covered in colorful mosaic tiles, a vivid luminescent pattern that contrasts the house’s dark embellishments, giving the room a  homely effect.

Derek sits on the old leather couch, a yellowing, book propped on his chest and a strip of light slashing across his face, as if behind bars.   _ The Illustrated Man, _ the book title reads, by Ray Bradbury.  The book’s spine is creased, its pages dog-eared and brittle, corners frayed.  Love has been poured into that book, Stiles knows, more than most of the others on the shelf.

Derek looks up at Stiles, folding a corner down gently and closing the book to address him. To his dismay, Stiles looks uncomfortable.

“Uh. Where’s my - where did you put my clothes? And - uh, my other things.”

Derek inclines his head, his own hair prickling as he senses the nerves radiating off Stiles.  “Your clothes are in the laundry room. Your shirt is bloody and your pants are covered in dirt.”  He says, shutting the book altogether.  He listens a moment before continuing, “The washing machine is still running.”

Stiles swallows thickly. “And the… other stuff? Where did you put my…” Stiles stops, gesturing to his chest lamely.

Derek narrows his eyes with a sigh, looking at his hands before meeting his eyes again.  Stiles doesn’t seem comfortable addressing the binder directly, probably because he’s basically been forced to come out due to injury.

“Your binder was ruined when I had to cut it off of you.  But, even if it wasn't ruined, I wouldn’t let you have it back.”

Stiles looks like he’s about to object, eyes warm with indignation, before Derek continues.

“Ace bandages aren’t proper binders. They restrict your breathing, deform your ribs, puncture a lung, cause you to faint, reduce the oxygen intake to your brain,  _ permanently  _ disfigure your chest -”

_ “I know! I know.”  _ Stiles shouts hotly before his voice tapers quietly, hands gripping his chest in frustration.  “My real binder got torn last week in that fight with the pixies.” Stiles mutters angrily. “And it was a  _ good _ binder, too.  The best brand. I haven’t had the money to buy a new one yet.” Stiles says dejectedly.  

“It got torn right down the seam. That’s why I ran home after.”

Derek hums quietly in remembrance, understanding.  “That's why you ran home afterwards? We all thought you’d been hurt and ran with your pride.”

Stiles furrows his brows with a confused expression. “Derek, I cry about splinters. What makes you think my pride decided to make an appearance then?” He asks, and Derek rolls his eyes.  “Yes. I ran home ‘cause my binder got torn.”

Derek nods. Neither say anything until Stiles bursts with anger again.

“I know you’re not supposed to bind with ace bandages, but I had to do  _ something!  _  I can’t have everyone seeing my -” His voice trails off into something raw and incomprehensible, and Derek stands up with Stiles’ growing irritation, sympathy welling in his chest.  “I can’t have people seeing me as a girl!  Because I’m  _ not.”  _  Stiles exclaims, his whiskey eyes fuming, almost daring an audience to say otherwise.

“Easy, Stiles.” Derek says tersely, clipped, hands up with disarmament. Stiles drags his hands through his hair, wayward strands falling over his forehead as he paces anxiously, his eyes squeezed shut.  “I’ve worked really fucking hard for really fucking long so people wouldn’t see me as a girl - so that any traces of - of _ before _ were  _ gone.   _ Because that’s not me and it  _ never was  _ me.” His voice cracks, and it only seems to affect him more, swallowing thickly and ducking his head.  

“Stiles.  _ Easy.” _ Derek says now, softer, more dulcet.  Stiles’ anger seems to dissipate, looking at Derek less defensively now.  Slowly, Derek reaches a hand out. When Stiles doesn’t move away, Derek clasps his shoulder and presses him down onto the couch.  

Stiles sinks into the cushion beside Derek, his legs splayed and hands clasped between his thighs.  His face looks drawn, eyes downcast.  “I know you’re not a girl. You never have been. You’ll never have to prove yourself to me. Or to anyone.”

Stiles watches him warily, the two staring in silence. Stiles’ face is unsure, hesitant, Derek’s open and lax.  “Okay.” Stiles resigns, and Derek sighs quietly in relief.

“But,” Stiles starts, staring down his torso, “but what about the binder? What do I do  _ now? _ The pack is gonna come, and they're  _ definitely _ going to know.  I mean, they can probably  _ smell _ tits, Derek.  And then can definitely smell blood. What if they get all grabby and try to see where I got hurt, huh? What then, huh? Don’t tell me none of you haven’t smelled some sort of  _ estrogen _ or biological  _ lady stuff  _ or something -” Derek can tell he's working himself up into a panic again, his heart rate increasing, blood rushing through his veins and thundering at each pulse.

“Calm down.” Derek interjects. “I'll give you a sweatshirt that you can wear.  It'll swallow you up. Don't worry.” He assures, and Stiles nods hastily. “And, to answer your questions, no. Both men and women have estrogen. You’ve been transitioning for so long that you smell and sound like a man. Because, Stiles, you are a man.” He says, and Stiles looks up at Derek like he just discovered gravity.  

With that, Derek stands and takes quick strides to his room, pulling a large black hoodie out of his drawer and returning to the living room.

He stands in front of the younger boy, holding his arms out rather childishly for Stiles to take the sweatshirt. Because he knows no other way to hand it to Stiles, or because of pure emotional blockages on Derek’s part, he has no idea.

He does, tentatively, and immediately slips it on over his head. Derek was right - the sweater envelopes him completely.  Stiles holds it away from him at either end of the hem, reading the block letters. “Beacon Hills High School. 2011.” Stiles intones, looking up.

“It’s my basketball hoodie from my graduating year.” Derek explains, moving to sit beside him again, gesturing his head proudly.

“You’re only twenty-three?” Stiles asks quietly, more a faint whisper than anything of substance.

Derek scrunches his nose, narrowing his eyes at Stiles in a way that might’ve scared the younger boy had they just met.  “I don’t know if I should be mad at that.”

“No!” Stiles amends, his hands clutching the lettering on the hoodie. “No, no, Sourwolf. I didn’t mean it like that.  You just look…” Stiles hesitates, licking his lips as he does when he thinks. “You just look tired. Heavy. You look sad. When nobody’s looking.” Stiles mutters, and he pulls his knees to his chest, sliding the hoodie over them so he’s in a warm little ball.

Derek cannot deny this, not really.  If anything, he’s surprised that Stiles had noticed. But, then again, who else would?

“Well,” Derek frowns, “so do you.”

Stiles watches him now, jade green locking with amber, wide.

“Yeah.”

And then a silence settles over them; a mutual understanding, yet one neither wishes to understand. Stiles sits with his body enveloped in the hoodie, Derek sits beside him, book propped on his chest and strips of light drenching them in gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked that! 
> 
> DON'T FORGET TO LEAVE COMMENTS AND KUDOS!!
> 
> follow my ig: jerk.punk  
> follow my tumblr: scruffydun


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nice talks and scott's arrival.

Derek first peers over the corner of his book to stare at Stiles’ bouncing leg as it shakes the sofa. He then glances at Stiles’ absent expression questioningly from the top of his book.

The younger boy is idly flipping through channels with haste, in such a way that suggests that he isn’t even focusing on the shows themselves. His hands lay restlessly between his thighs, legs sprawled out. His empty hand is worrying the drawstring of his sweatpants between his thumb and index finger.

“Stiles.” Derek intones.

“Wh - yeah?” Stiles says, jumping before turning.

“Are you alright?” He questions, and Stiles furrows his brows before looking near guilty.

“‘M still kinda nervous, y’know?” Stiles shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest tightly again at the reminder. “And I didn’t take my ADHD meds today. I forgot.” He mutters, nodding to himself before continuing abruptly. Derek raises a brow as Stiles barrels on.

“But, y’see, the problem with forgetting your ADHD meds is that ADHD makes your mind go all over the place - your thoughts get disorganized, and all that sweet stuff. So, then I’ll forget my meds  _ again, _ and it’ll just be this endless cycle until someone literally shoves the bottle -” Stiles is in the middle of making a  _ very _ crude gesture during his ramble before Derek interjects.

“I’m getting you water.” He says, standing and retrieving a water bottle from the refrigerator, handing it to Stiles with little room for argument. Long ago, Derek had learned that drinking or eating makes him pace his breathing, slow his heart rate, makes him concentrate, before he works himself into a panic. Stiles takes the bottle gratefully, downing half in one swig before taking a breath.

“Little better?” Derek knows water doesn’t cure ADHD, of course. But a repetitive motion, like drinking, at least lets him take a few breaths instead of rambling himself into a panic attack.

“A little.”

Sure enough, Stiles’ heart resumes its normal pace, a little fast for his liking, but not as bad as it could be.  He still smells of crisp energy, radiating off him as if electrified, though Stiles looks more relaxed.  With one more drink of water, pacing his breaths, he’s stopped fidgeting and his hands instead rest tense between his thighs.

Minutes pass, Derek reading his book and Stiles snorting at tropes on the television. 

“Do you ever get mad at werewolves on TV?” Stiles asks amiably after at least half an hour. Derek stirs, turning to the boy.  “Furious.” He deadpans.

Stiles takes this as his cue to continue, eyes wild at Derek’s flat stare. “Hey, seriously!” He argues, turning to face Derek with his legs curled under him in interest. “Like, are you ever pissed off when there are inaccuracies between the lore and the truth? Does seeing these vicious, uncouth representations of werewolves bother you?” He asks.

Derek furrows his brows, thinking about entertaining Stiles with a genuine answer, before Stiles continues.

“In the media, either werewolves are considered less-than human, dirty and animalistic and vilified. Either that, or it’s the complete opposite, and they’re hyper-sexualized. And nobody will listen when you know the truth. And it’s not really fair.” Stiles says dolefully, his eyes trained on his lap.

_ Oh. _

“Is that how you feel the media portrays trans people, too?” Derek asks instead, and Stiles nods tentatively.

“You’re right. It’s not fair at all.  This is a world where minorities are either considered fake, lying, or insane. And because your voice is stifled, they speak for you.” Derek says to him.

And what an absurd conversation, this is.  Neither man ever imagined relating over such an odd and inherently unfair system. And, yet, here they are.

“But,” Derek continues. “You are very clearly a man, and I am very clearly a man, no matter what we hide from the world, by force or by choice.”

Stiles’ face is something bright and sunny and breathless, and he’s about to respond, surely, when hard, rapid knocks rap the door.

In a matter of seconds, Stiles throws his arms over his chest so fast he winces, eyes trained on the door.

Sympathy slams into Derek. “It’s just Scott.” He assures, and Stiles’ face instantly looks relieved.

Derek reaches the door in quick strides, opening it and stepping out of the way.  

Within seconds, Stiles swings himself off the couch despite the pain in his side and ribs, darting towards his friend who does the same. He tackles Scott with open arms in a hug, a mess of tossed arms and legs, latching onto each other as if they’d been estranged for years.  Stiles doesn’t seem to mind the flush contact without his binder. Scott drops his two duffel bags in favor of grabbing onto Stiles, and he stumbles back slightly with the sheer force of the hug before hugging tightly back.  

For outsiders, Scott and Stiles are surely a sight to see.  Two teenage boys fully embraced in each other, Stiles’s head tucked by Scott neck and Scott swaying slightly with the momentum of the hug. The world and its people are seemingly gone to them. Scott holds him tightly but carefully, one hand around his back and the other clasping his neck, eyes squeezed shut in relief.

Derek has always been astounded with their friendship, and now he respects it even more in light of recent events.  The were always in contact, whether it was when Stiles was sprawled out over Scott on the couch, or when they gave each other specialized ringtones.  Their bond was easy and unbreakable. Profound, even. The stuff of story books.

The ease, the simple and necessary fluidity that came with the strong friendship could cause even the best of friends to feel envious.  If Derek didn’t know the two of them, he would have immediately assumed that Scott and Stiles were dating.

“Are you okay? Bruises? Fractures? Can I see?” Scott asks, holding him at arm’s length then.  Stiles grabs the hem of his hoodie, and pulls it entirely up.

Scott is entirely unphased, and instead crouches down and peers at the bandaged wound, eyeing his bruised ribs.  “Do your ribs hurt?”

“No,” Stiles says. “Derek did the werewolf thing.” He explains, and Scott peers over the side of Stiles’ stomach to glance pointedly at Derek, standing patient. A mixture of concern, protectiveness, and thanks rolls off Scott in waves.

Stiles pulls his hoodie back down, and Scott presents him with one of the two duffel bags.  “I stopped by your place to tell your pops what happened, and I packed you a bag.” He explains, and Stiles grins widely. “Thanks, my dude.”

“Yeah, ‘course. Let me know if I put everything in there?” Scott asks, and Stiles nods, kneeling and unzipping the duffel to rummage through it.

Scott slips away, grabbing Derek’s arm and leading him into the bedroom.

“I came in, and he smelled completely relaxed.” Scott leads with, a remarkably surprised, relieved tone to his voice. He swipes a hand through his curls, turning his attention to Derek again.

“He’s never voluntarily told anyone before.  The only reason I know is because we’ve been friends since pre-k.  I don’t know what you said, how you made him so comfortable around you, how you related to him, but you need to know that he’s had a hard fucking life. You don’t understand - he hurt everyday so much. He - he was a stranger to himself. It was _ terrifying.  _ I thought I lost him. And I couldn’t do anything but treat him like he deserved to be treated.” Scott says darkly, and it hurts Derek to hear. He crosses his arms, expecting a threatening rant from Scott about not hurting Stiles.

“So, thank you.” Scott breathes, and Derek can do nothing but nod.   “I know you would never hurt him.  And I’m counting on that.”

“Hello?” Stiles sing-songs from the living room. “I can protect my own virtue and feelings, Scott.” Stiles says knowingly, and Scott laughs, swiping at his eyes before addressing Derek one more time.

“What did you tell him? When he woke up?” Scott asks.

“I told him that feeling like a stranger in your own body was not a foreign concept to me. I told him feeling alone and out of control over something that is supposed to feel like home is a horrible thing. And that men are not judged by the anatomy of their body.”  Derek says somberly. “And I told him he was a boy and he’d never have to prove it.”

Scott watches with relief and pride.

“And then, I did nothing different.” He concludes with a shrug.

Scott almost knocks him to the ground in a hug.

“Get off.” Derek grunts.

“Got it. One more second.”

“Fine.” Derek pauses.  _ “One. _ Get off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! Don't forget to leave comments!!
> 
> Would you rather short chapters frequently, or long chapters less frequently?
> 
> Say hi!  
> IG: jerk.punk  
> TUMBLR: scruffydun


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh! i'm sorry this took so long! i've been priortizing my other stories, and schoolwork, and personal issues, so please forgive me. also, please be nice in the comments... some of y'all are impatient and it's coming off rude. BUT I LIKE THIS CHAPTER, AND I HOPE YOU DO TOO!

In Derek’s room, Scott is attempting to healthily help Stiles bind before the pack gets here, against Derek’s better judgement. 

Ten minutes later, Stiles comes out in a huff, close to tears, cheeks hot and eyes glossy. His hands are engulfed in the hoodie sleeves, but his arms are crossed tightly over his chest.

“Stiles, it’s okay.” Scott starts, reaching a hand out to him.

“It’s  _ not.”  _ He chokes, shrinking away from Scott’s hand and collapsing on the sofa, far away from Derek this time. He curls up on the other side of the sofa, his knees to his chest, and his head ducked down.  

“Stiles,” Scott pleads, “the pack won’t know. They won’t notice. I promise.”

“But  _ I’ll  _ know.  _ I’ll _ notice!” He explains desperately. “That’s always half the problem!” He’s crying now. Wind howls outside but it does nothing to silence his quiet sobs, eyes angry and red. He radiates a tired sadness, an old sadness.

Scott looks helpless. He’s running a hand through his mess of hair and watching Stiles like he wishes he could fix everything that hurts him.  Derek understands, since he’s doing the same.

_ What do you do? How do you fix this? How do you help a sad person? How do you help this boy who does not feel at home in his body, whose body is still sometimes a reminder of such pain? _

Derek lets his eyes burn the brightest blue they can. His fangs come in, nails growing, shifting.  “Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles pulls his head up to look at Derek, watching him desperately, curiously.  

“I know I am a man, and you know you are a man. But we have to  _ look like one _ for others to believe us, so we do. At home, at the end of the day, alone, sometimes it’s harder to fit in, to know there’s something different about you that people may scorn you for.” Derek says lowly, wind rattling the ancient windows.

Stiles sniffs, stares at Derek like he’s trying to figure out what to say.  They watch each other - or, rather, Stiles watches him, and Derek holds his stare.  Stiles looks as if he’s latching on to something, watching his unnatural electric eyes.  He turns fully to Derek now, curling his knees to his chest, and wrapping his arms round his legs, watching Derek.  Something blue and sweet fills the air - calmness, slowly,  _ slowly, _ mixing with his distress. Derek knows that look; knows it from himself, knows it from Cora. Stiles is searching for solace, for a place.  

He has a place here. He must know that, right?

He turns to Scott, who is looking at Derek with a look akin to thanks.

Warm and content floods off Stiles in waves, masking almost entirely the acidic scent of hate and sadness.

Derek remembers a fonder time, a softer time, where Cora, much like Stiles, was afraid of thunderstorms. He would wake up over her frantic heartbeat, and they would sneak downstairs to build a fort with the sofa cushions. Short for her age and for a wolf, she would curl herself up beside Derek and listen to the storm.  He taught Cora to growl louder than the sound of thunder, and for Stiles, to shout louder. To show the thunder who's scarier. It always calmed her.  And it always calmed Stiles. It might've been childish, but who’s to judge methods that work?

“Get up, Pup.” Derek says, and Stiles hesitantly stands, hands still very much pressed over his chest.

“What're we doin’?” He mumbles, fidgeting with the drawstrings on his hoodie, hopping from foot to foot. Derek absently wonder if Stiles’ ADHD meds are in that duffel bag Scott brought.

“Making a fort.” He says gruffly, pulling blankets from the linen closet and ripping the cushions from the sofa.

After two minutes, Derek has expertly built a fort from the ground up.  Patchwork blankets line the floor at the foot of the sofa, and cushions add height to the fort, blankets upon blankets draped over the back of the couch and over the cushions.  A miniature mansion of sorts. The lights are flickering because of old wiring in the house, and the entire decrepit mansion is nostalgic, and yet, homely.

It is nostalgic and sad for the movie nights with Derek and his sisters and his parents, the blood rich with the ink of heritage and pain and loyalty.  The house is old, its settling breaths make the house shudder at night.  The doorframe in the kitchen, though worn away, is home to the very faint nail-carving of Derek, Laura, and Cora’s height chart as children.  On the last three steps in the house, the siblings wrote their names with permanent marker in age order.  There are claw marks on the frame of the front door from where Derek pushed himself off of it to chase after a boy bullying Cora, and the stair railing isn’t original anymore because of the time he and Laura were wrestling and tumbled off the stairs. Traditional Native American and Middle Eastern food was eaten on the old table, and Wednesday movie nights were always a struggle for real estate space on the sofa.

All this was before the fire, though, of course.

But, the mansion is homely, now, too, because although those old times were gone and painful beyond recognition, this is a new home now; still old, still lined with memories, but home to a different mangy pack now.  Now, a kitchen drawer is devoted to Stiles’ candy stash. Each pack member has a drawer at each other’s homes, and plenty of blankets, though they usually end up sleeping in a heap together.  Many old memories had burned away beyond recognition in the fire, and although Derek salvaged what he could, new memories have been bred here in the space of the lost ones.  Derek’s mosaic tiled shower is cluttered with various shampoos and conditioners, all with mild scents for the sake of their sensory input.

There’s a blood stain in the carpet from when Stiles cut his foot on a shard of glass, and two spare lacrosse sticks, in case the players in the pack forget their gear.  The entire mansion smells different, too. The ash and debris rests under everything in the home, no matter how much Derek scrubs until his fingers are raw, but now there’s good smells, too. Everything is distinctly _Stiles_ \- the faint chemical smell of Adderall, the subtle spice - like sage, almost, and vanilla. _Good._ Derek smells it everywhere.

There are tears on Derek’s bed, he can still smell them, from when Stiles would knock on Derek’s door, crying, whether because of anxiety or plain fear, and they would sit for hours until Derek was confident that his heartbeat resumed its normal flutter. There’s a chip missing from the granite counter in the kitchen, where Erica and Isaac were wrestling, and memories of Scott falling on the Christmas tree last year still make Derek huff out a laugh.  Once, Boyd ran full-force into the front door, the dent a permanent reminder.  

Derek finds socks that don’t belong to him, and food that isn’t his, and video games that he never plays.  Most importantly, the mansion breeds a new sense of solace and security for a new group of people, Derek the only remainder. And that, perhaps, hurts worse than any physical wound.

New memories fill the cracks in the walls, new toes skitter down the creaking halls, new laughter shudders the residual soot in the windows, new fingers crease old books.  Everything new, except Derek.

This mansion is intrepid in its standing, dauntless in its perseverance.

Or, rather, is  _ Derek  _ the intrepid one, the dauntless one?

“There.” Derek says, his forlorn thoughts abandoned as he turns back to Stiles, who is smiling. He and Scott burrow under the fort, followed by Derek, and really, it looks almost comical - three grown (somewhat) men in a blanket fort.

But Stiles is grinning wide, whiskey eyes bright, Scott smiling along with him.

“Now be quiet and watch TV.” Derek hums, leaning back against the now cushionless sofa, Stiles curled up close beside him, Scott laying sprawled in front of them, head peaking out from its entrance.

They lay idle and watch television under the flickering lights and the whimsical tent for another hour, until there's a knock on the door. Or, rather, several knocks, and lots of noise.

Stiles doesn't move, but his heart beat jack-rabbits, and he smells of anxiety. Sour.

Derek pushes himself off the floor, opening the door with no apparent haste. He strolls over, pulls the door open, and finds the disgruntled pack staring back at him, wind whipping their hair and biting at their cheeks.  “You couldn’t have opened the door sooner?” Erica asks, clipped. Derek narrows his eyes, holds the door open.

They all tumble inside, holding backpacks of their own, Boyd coming in last with an entire restaurant's worth of Chinese food. “We saw the delivery dude biking through the woods and figured you ordered food. We took it off his hands.” Boyd explains, smiling and handing all the food to Derek.

“Did any of you  _ pay?” _

Isaac sighs, taking his scarf off and hanging on the line of hooks by the door. “I did.”

Derek sets the take-out on the granite countertop, slowly unloading the bags. Erica is the first to notice something off, and her head tips up, her eyes flicking to Stiles.

“Are you hurt? I smell blood. And nervous energy.” She says, and immediately crowds his space, not unlike Erica to do, considering she has no concept of privacy.

She completely disregards the fort on the floor, and crouches down where he’s sitting, inches from his face. “Where’d you get hurt?” She asks, eyeing his entire body.  

Derek can hear the frantic thud of Stiles’ heart, and everyone else must, too. “Um. Safeword.” Stiles squeaks, crossing his arms over himself, which only makes Erica more curious.

At Stiles’ attempt of getting help, Derek growls lowly, watching Erica. She turns to Derek abruptly, stepping away from Stiles.

“We were collecting firewood and a pre-set hunter’s trap grazed Stiles. He’s fine now.” Derek explains tersely. After a few moments, once all the Chinese food containers are open, everyone mostly forgets about everything; normal teenagers are hungry, but Derek’s pups can pack away food like a magic act.

The table isn’t nearly big enough for all of them, so the mangy pack eats together on the couch, the floor, propped up on random surfaces of the home, together.  They eat in virtual silence, the only sounds are the susurrus of the wind, the droning television, and Stiles’ bouncing leg.

The mansion is tested by the beginnings of the storm, groaning under its force, and Stiles shrinks smaller progressively as the storm worsens. He hates storms, and always has, according to Scott. As of late, Stiles has been going to Derek during storms, since Scott is often busy. His mother’s car crash happened during a storm, so this isn’t entirely irrational.

For the most part, though, today is like any other day, except Derek knows a bit more about Stiles, and the storm is unnerving everyone a bit, since the rain is diluting scents for the werewolves, and the noise is startling Stiles. Erica and Isaac fight over food, Boyd breaking them up and rationing their food like children. Stiles shoves his mouth full of fried rice and chews happily, Scott and Derek are on either side of him, eating contentedly, if not a bit quiet.

They’re about to pack it in, put what little food is left in the fridge, before the front door swings open.  Stiles nearly falls off the sofa, and the wolves are all alert, before they see who entered the mansion.

Peter smiles cooly at them all, closing the door silently behind him.

“Oh my -  _ seriously? _ Who invited Uncle Perv?” Stiles scoffs, annoyance and wariness clear in his voice.

“Well. I appreciate the warm welcome.” Peter huffs, though he’s clearly unphased.

Derek approaches him, eyes hard.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked that! i'll try and update more regularly. in the meantime, feel free to check out my other stories if you want!
> 
> DON'T FORGET TO LEAVE COMMENTS AND KUDOS :)
> 
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	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ: hi folks just know that i wrote trans!atiles very similar to myself, as i’m trans and have also adhd and anxiety like stiles. so a lot of my story's stiles’ feelings and experiences and behavior are things i experience myself. so basically please be nice. thanks.

Derek approaches Peter, eyes hard. “Why are you here?” He asks, but it comes out a statement instead.  

The tension is immediate, thick, threatening.  They stand inches apart, matching each other in height, muscle, intimidation, intensity, ferocity.  Derek’s eyes are electric blue, and a smile curls on Peter’s lips, wry. His head cocks to the side, stepping closer to Derek, who growls low.  The pack is on their feet, ready to help if Derek needs it.

“Are you going to kick me out, nephew? Are you strong enough to even do that?” Peter asks him, his eyes knowing.  

Derek is fuming, and in a single second, he’s backing Peter into the nearest wall, his forearm pressed over his neck and knee in his abdomen. “Why are you  _ here, _ Peter?”

Peter gives a feeble chuckle despite the pressure on his neck, and Derek furrows his brows. “I can’t visit my favorite nephew and his misfits every now and then?” He asks airily, eyes flicking to Stiles.  Derek can’t see him, but he smells the uncertainty, hears his tripping heart. Derek stares at Peter still, blue eyes flickering.

“Not unannounced, you can’t. You lost that privilege.” Derek says sternly, and Peter rolls his eyes, a wild grin spreading on his face.

“Derek, I'm  _ bored.”  _ Peter drawls, heaving a sigh. Derek watches him curiously, confused. The wall Peter is shoved against creaks under the pressure, the light flickers dulcetly, and the patter of the rain outside makes it hard for the wolves to isolate heart beats.

“This patchwork pack of castaway teenagers has made you  _ soft,  _ nephew.” Peter hums, wicked grin stretched across his face. “What happened to you? You're a babysitter, if anything.”

Derek snarls, shoves Peter so hard into the wall again that the plaster rattles behind Peter’s head. Their feud hasn't always existed, though. As all fights go, causation is almost always some type of stressor.  

The boys had always been different, yes, but it was never a need for fighting until recently. Peter, whose belief was to coax followers into submission by fear and intimidation. He radiated power, harshness, lavishness.  He was always the one to goad Derek into doing dangerous things as a teenager, getting into trouble with friends and police alike. He was rude, malicious, all his life. Hurt first, questions later.

Peter’s greed was dangerous. He is a righteous man, a jaded man; he built himself a pyre and stands atop it as the lone survivor of his own chaos.

Derek, well. Derek was different. Derek believed in shows of power when necessary. A display of power is a defense, not a way of life. Being aloof was different - that was silent intimidation, not outright superiority. Power was kept in his back pocket, not worn on his sleeve. Derek was kind, soft, happy, protective. Questions first, hurt later.

The stressor was the fire, of course. The only two left, and their differences rose to the surface. Peter used his power to elicit pain and submission; Derek used his for necessity. What happened later - the fighting, the killing, the hatred, it stemmed from that one stressor. After the fire, Peter’s power became more dangerous, more malicious, more conniving. Derek, however, strayed from his rambunctious but kind ways and instead manifested into a hurt, aloof, powerful man, with no intent to inherently harm.  The polar opposite of Peter.

Derek, now, despite his strength in himself, couldn't help but pause, internalizing his thoughts. There is no doubt he once displayed his power differently before, more outright - but Peter would rub off on anyone if enough time was spent with him.  This established, Derek still can't help but momentarily  confuse his sated silent power, for weakness, for softness.

Was caring weak? Kindness? Was goodness  _ weak? _  Was establishing commonalities and safe haven weak? Did it make him soft to just simply be  _ good? _

A later-problem. They're all later-problems.

“Just - just to be clear… Are  _ we _ in any immediate danger here? Should we maybe, like, step out for a sec and give you and your garbage uncle some space, or?” Stiles questions, his voice wavering.  The pack says nothing.

“No. Not necessary.” Derek answers, clipped, stern, before he slowly raises Peter up to the tips of his toes, sliding him up the wall, his fists in Peter’s shirt collar.

“You have no right to speak to me about  _ power,  _ Uncle. You will stay here  _ only _ until the storm clears up, and then you’ll leave.” He says slowly, to a very red-faced Peter.

Derek drops him to the ground, releasing his grip, and Peter rubs at neck, clearing his throat with the same wry grin. “Ever so kind, Derek.” Peter huffs, and strolls into the mansion. His hands make a sweeping gesture; the pack leans away as Peter’s hands sway past them. Peter smiles at this. He feeds off the intimidation he breeds; he thrives off it, preens his mane under the stench of fear and trepidation. Disgusting.

“So, we’re just going to let him stay here?” Scott asks indignantly, glaring at Peter, who pays him no mind.

“You expect me to sleep around him?” Erica scoffs.

“You can have the leftover Chinese food scraps.” Stiles says flippantly. “If you, like, actually  _ eat  _ real food, and don’t just hunt for scraps in the woods.”

Peter turns to him then, eyes alight and daring. He strides closer to Stiles, cocking his head slightly. He is quiet and graceful; too much so for a person as dangerous as Peter. “No, thanks.” Peter says, “I prefer scrawny teenagers with twitchy hands and  _ secrets.” _ Peter hums, turns pointedly to Stiles.

The  _ tap tap tap _ of Stiles’ fingers against his thigh stops abruptly, and his skin grows pallid.

“Your uncle is a pervert, Derek.” Erica says bluntly, but nobody answers her. Stiles, Scott, and Derek have their eyes on Peter in wary confusion, shock, fear. Boyd, Erica, and Isaac look equally concerned, guarded.

“Okay,” Isaac starts hesitantly, “I’m assuming there’s something half of us don’t know. That’s okay, I guess. But can we maybe cut the tension a little? It’s making me nervous.” He mumbles.

Derek averts his gaze first, sighing.  Of course the tension of three angry and surprised men, two of whom could be fairly dangerous, would worry Isaac - he grew up with a father who treated his son like a punching bag. “Right. There’s nothing wrong.” Derek promises, though his voice betrays him.

“Wh -” Stiles splutters indignantly. _ “Nothing _ is okay! Nothing is - I don’t want him here. _ None of us do.” _ Stiles spits, eyes scared and bright and angry. He stands up in a huff, flips Peter the finger. “Fuck you, and your creepy eyes, and your unsettlingly deep V-neck shirts, and - and the fact that you think you can toy with  _ people _ like that.” Stiles grits, tight-lipped.  Anger radiates off him, but he smells of insecurity, fear, irritation. It smells thick and sweet, which Derek never thought was appropriate for a feeling so horrible.

He leaves the room, but not before scooping up a handful of candy that he hid in one of Derek’s kitchen drawers. Scott follows him, stares pointedly at Derek before leaving.

“I don’t know what just happened that bothered Stiles so much, and I don’t actually need to know. But if you keep psychologically fucking my friends, we’ll send you back out into that storm where the wind and rain will leave your senses powerless.” Erica snaps suddenly, and when Derek says nothing to reprimand her, her eyes glow bright.

For his part, Derek seems thoughtful, brows knit together and scowling more than usual at Peter.  Peter kneels down, opens the fridge and idly picks through the leftovers with distaste.  From his place in the living room, Derek speaks, quiet, calm. “You will stay here until the worst of the storm is over. You will not antagonize my pack. You will not assert the dominance you seem to think you have. You will not goad, stare down, or hurt my pack in any way, and you will be, for all intents and purposes, invisible. If the storm passes at three in the morning, that is when you will leave.” The tone of Derek’s voice leaves even the pack silent. “Am I being clear?” It isn’t a question.

“Crystal.” Peter chirps.

Peter hums as he makes his plate of food, and Derek clenches his jaw so tightly that his pups can just barely hear the grind of his teeth. He crosses his arms over his chest, paces in quiet frustration, internalizing his distrust.

Before following Stiles and Scott, Derek inclines his head at Erica. She’s in charge. She nods, and, really, the scene is comical; Erica, Boyd, and Isaac, all in the living room crowded around the sofa staring Peter down with fervor, and Peter, behind the counter in the bright kitchen, munching happily and suspiciously on leftovers.

He opens the door to the old, musty guestroom, to find Scott and Stiles with their backs on the floor and their legs propped up on the beds. Why they don’t just sit on the bed, Derek has no clue, and probably never will. Stiles stares at Derek from his upside-down perspective, his hands clasped over his belly. “Nice of you to join us, Sourwolf. How’s your shitstick of an uncle?” 

Derek narrows his eyes, steps closer to the boys. “Why are you so calm right now, Stiles?” He hums.

“I gave him a Benadryl. They make you sleepy and content.” Scott says. “The pack would’ve heard his fast heart beat, and he’d throw himself into a panic attack.”

Derek nods his head in understanding, stepping over both boys to go into the adjoining bathroom, returning with a first aid kit. He crouches down by Stiles’ side, gauze and anti-bacterial cream in lap.  “It’s been a few hours and that’s a fresh graze. Can I see?” Derek asks, and Stiles tenses up a little more than Scott and Derek like.  He seems to think for a moment before lifting his hoodie up to his chest, holding it firmly in place there. It’s high enough for Derek to get to his wound, though, and that’s all he really cares about. “Thank you.” Derek tells him. Stiles nods in affirmation.

Carefully, Derek peels back the taped square bandage.  Beneath is a large, red slash, dried blood lining the cut, and a line of red skin around it. Normal but irritated. It’s not infected, at least. Derek lathers on the antibiotic cream. For his part, Stiles does his best not to move, though he’s clenching his fists.

“Bad?” Derek asks quietly, wadding up the old bandage and unwrapping a fresh one.

“No. Doesn’t hurt at all. It’s like there _isn’t_ a gunshot wound on my side.” Stiles huffs, and Derek’s mouth curls into a tentative smile. “Well, alright.”  He presses the new bandage to his bullet graze, tapes down the sides, and pulls Stiles’ hoodie back down.

“One of us can take some of the pain away.” Scott offers, but Stiles waves them off. “‘S fine. It’s not too bad.” He promises, but looks hesitant.

“I - Peter said that he knew I had a secret.” Stiles says. His voice wavers slightly, but his eyes are hard amber.  “He was  _ taunting _ me.” He hisses. His eyes grow distant, a thousand-yard stare of sorts, and he swallows thickly through his thoughts.

Scott seems to recognize this, props himself up on his elbows, pushing his legs off the bed. “Stiles. Stop thinking. Don’t even go down that road again.” He admonishes, and Stiles blinks into focus, wets his lips, sniffs. He nods distractedly, but his eyes still aren’t fully there.

Derek wonders what  _ “that road again” _ referred to, but knows it must not be a good state of mind. He also can’t help but wonder just how  _ much  _ sadness and hurt Stiles experienced when he was younger, just how much he had to go through, in addition to losing his mother. And Scott must have been there through all of it.

“There’s no way Peter knows.” Scott mouths quietly, just in case the sound of the heavy rain wasn’t enough to mask their conversation from the rest of the pack and Peter.

“He doesn’t have any leverage, Stiles.  He’s just grasping for any type of power he can get his hands on.” Derek says.  “But if he does know, or he’s trying to find out, he won’t get far. He wants to antagonize you, because he knows your attitude affects the rest of us.” He explains. “He's pathetic.” Derek says simply, a bit sad. Because Derek doesn't know why this had to happen to them.

The series of events that made up their tragic lives had broken Peter and made him bad. They broke Derek, too, but made him good.  Peter was spite and Derek was betterment. Both broken and the only two survivors, and yet they could not be more different. How unfortunate. How cosmically unfunny. A sick joke.

Stiles closes his eyes. He doesn't answer Derek or Scott, but closing his eyes is answer enough. He hugs his arms to his chest, tries very hard not to cry.

“Are you sure you don't want me to take some of the pain away?” Scott asks, and Stiles makes a noise somewhat akin to laughter.

“It's not that kind of pain.”

Silence.

After several minutes of this, Stiles finally speaks. “Can we turn the lights off now and all sleep?”

“You're tired?”

“Yeah, kind of. The Benadryl is gonna make me knock out. Drugs are cool like that.” Stiles notes.

A lie. Scott and Derek know this.

Well, not a lie, but not a total truth. Stiles doesn't tell them that he wants the lights off so he doesn't have to see himself anymore. It helps his dysphoria sometimes, when it's more prominent like this. Of course being on testosterone for so long now has obviously eased his dysphoria over the years, but it looms, lingers, waits.

And so, they do. In a matter of minutes, Derek instructs Peter to make a fire and sleep downstairs, while the rest of the pack will sleep like they always do; a heap on Derek’s bed or on the floor. 

The bed wins out this time, because the floor is cold from the rain humidity.  They pile blankets upon blankets, pillows tossed haphazardly. They change into pajamas, wash, brush, get comfortable. 

In less than ten minutes, mostly everyone is sleeping. Much like teenagers to do, they never realize how tired they are until their head hits the pillow.

Derek and Stiles stay awake longer than the rest, but remain still, quiet, trying to lure sleep.

Stiles’ eyes are open, glossy, his face burrowed under the collar of the hoodie. He wonders. He wonders about his future, Peter, Derek. He wonders when his body will fully feel like it belongs to him.  Completely and entirely his. It doesn't yet. His body still sometimes aches and his heart hurts and there are things that do not belong, connected to a mind that is far too cavernous.

Derek is thoughtful, his eyes shut but mind reeling. Peter isn't a man to take advice from, but he still can't help but dwell on his Uncle’s threats. That he is too weak. That caring for his pack has made him soft. That he is no longer strong and powerful. Derek knows, though, that having power and hurting others with it are two different things. They both have power, but Peter exploits his. Has he gotten softer? Less intimidating? Is it a bad thing, even? Surely having a pack living in fear isn't beneficial or pleasing. A scared pack would never feel like companionship.

 

Like Family. Like partnership.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked that! DON'T FORGET TO LEAVE COMMENTS :)
> 
> and to answer some questions, yes, i am a trans male, and yes, Stiles is on testosterone in my story. testosterone is the hormome many trans guys go on to help masculanize the body shape and voice. it is usually an injection in either the thigh, arm, or bum, and is administered every 1-2 weeka. 
> 
> plus i also just started t on seprember 16th!!!!
> 
> INSTAGRAM: heathen.son


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